Best Rimmed Poems
SONNET FOR KELLY
The Spring has come a little late this year
Siberian winds and rain have chilled the soul
Though calendar proclaimed that April’s here
No tiny leaves yet rimmed the Elm tree bole *
But One brought inner Spring to heart and mind
And raised the spirits strength to face our chore
Providing us a warmth for which we pined
Then gave us boost that we might start to soar
With raven hair and sparking ebon eye
A glittering jewel on grey cold cloth she shon
Then life here was revived till by and bye
The long awaited Spring gave a new dawn
So we’ll recall long after our departs
How she allayed the cold and warmed our hearts
April 2018
* Reference to Robert Browning poem: ‘Home thoughts from abroad’
(English Sonnet Rhyme in Iambic Tetrameter)
What tomes in lonely corners dwell
where undisturbed and rimmed with dust,
forgotten tales that once were held
and stained with tears and love and lust -
now sit untouched like aging queens;
more interest in apparent heirs
like Kindle tablets - pageless screens,
dull bootless script where no one shares.
So empty when a page is turned,
no weight of paper in its place
and when it's done no conference yearned -
there is no book ... just empty space.
The halls where all the books are kept
will haunt until their dust is swept.
I stubbed my toe ...
(I do this a lot since turning fifty-five,
when everything I picked up to read began going to
arm's length in order to be visible,
and "readers" became a permanent style change -
I see things in the lower part of my
vision through wire-rimmed lenses that ride low
on my nose, and the mid-to-upper
views are naked eye, hence my feet are nearer
to objects than they seem,
and my podiatrical digits pay the price)
... and though this particular piggy-pounding
was as intensely painful and bloody as any of the myriad
bashings that preceded it, and while the air around me
reverberated just as rhythmically as it ever had with
streams of well-placed and frustration-relieving profanity,
and though my fists pounded just as relentlessly against
my thighs in anguish as they ever had before, (the purple/
black damage there to be tended to at a later date), and
while my face grew as contorted and red as was humanly
possible, THIS specific stubbing, was entirely different ...
... for when the aforementioned processes had run their
rather ugly (and noisy) courses, THIS time I smiled,
reached for my sublimely-timed Frozen Blue Margarita,
raised it to the direction of the accident itself, offered
a heartfelt blessing to that marvelous twilight air, and
TOASTED the very object I had stubbed it on ... a tree.
But you see, THIS tree was surrounded by cool, white
quartz sand, was near a lagoon that shimmered with the
colors of a peacock, and was festooned quite wonderfully
and perfectly and tropically, with PALMS ...
... battered toes ... be damned! ;-)
Thou art to me the fairest crimson rose,
A tender bloom with dawn's first colour gilt;
Yet ev'ry flow'r in mortal clime that grows,
Is here for but a time, and then does wilt.
By all I e'er held dear, I now aver,
That though a rose may wilt, yet still 'tis sweet;
I only hope a place I could secure
In fondest adoration at thy feet.
For fairness found in form and face will fail,
But that within the heart may shine undimmed;
Though nothing for youth's beauty may avail,
A heart with golden deeds may yet be rimmed.
My Juliet, in truth I do declare,
I love thee not for youthful beauty fair.
See this girl in the painting, this skinny girl
working on a puzzle at the bottom of the stairs.
With big rimmed glasses and her plain brown hair,
she’s an ordinary girl, with nothing seeming special.
Now see this girl. . . really SEE this girl.
At age 12, she’s just been fitted with new glasses -
They are black horn-rimmed - an utter disappointment
in the life of a young girl.
Some guys now call her four-eyes, and they don’t even notice
the beauty of her light green eyes and
long lush lashes behind those big-framed glasses.
But still she likes to fantasize, and in her dreams
she’s idolized by every boy she likes.
Always having wanted to be part of the “in” crowd,
she was a girl that struggled for popularity.
However, she’s been learning of another way to be!
Seeking out girls more like her, she hardly has to try
to fit in with her new friends. And now she’s much less shy.
With fun new friends, she is witty. She makes them laugh.
She’s even feeling pretty, wearing lipstick frosty pink.
She’s discovered she is smart in all her classes.
This girl who now is wearing black rimmed glasses!
She gets into the Glee Club, even sings on PBS!
With her athleticism, she also has success.
She makes Top Twelve in tryouts for cheerleading.
And though the student body does not vote her through,
she’ll soon get over it. She’s blossoming!
The glasses she will change for contact lenses,
and she does not know it yet,
but soon enough - a number of boyfriends she will get!
Also years of dance lessons and being in recitals
has boosted her self confidence.
Both her body and her spirit are transforming!
See the girl in the painting; a puzzle she assembles.
She does not know that one day
her mind will be on puzzles of a very different kind:
She will be assembling many words inside her mind,
and she will be partaking in an art called poetry.
I know all this because
the girl inside that painting - that ordinary girl -
is the one I used to be.
Based on the painting "Assembling the Pieces"
from Contemporary Figurative Artiste Stephanie Deshpande
for the Contemporary Free Rhyme Contest of Cyndi MacMillan
I hope you will see the painting at this link. When I saw the girl, I was
struck by how much it looked like me as a young girl: http://www.stephaniedeshpande.com/porfolio/
WHEN LETTERS DANCE ON THE PAGE
“Disappear,” I said.
They denied.
Didn’t the Casanova at the theatre
Return my ravishing smile last night?
The burgundy magic on greys!
Ironed with botoxed shots
The dry asparagus turns glossy;
Ready for the salad?
Midriffs declining, disappearing -
Decelerating; the passion of aping
A teenager for a climacteric but works.
The dried raisins, falling leaves
And the faded chrysanthemums-
Augmented, tucked in, liposuctioned.
The one who was being stared at,
Loses it all ; the pretence withers,
The efforts in vain.
I loved them the most
But they now scare me-
The letters diffusing, hyperopic.
Behind the lens, the zombies
Make me close my eyes- the mirror
Was never so unfriendly.
Progressive, focal, horn-rimmed,
Rimless – nothing works. They just
Simply refuse to go.
At the restaurant, travelator, bus
My glory shrouds as I struggle to
Settle the glass diptych on my nose.
“Disappear,” I say to them.
They deny.
The aunites gossip back home
About how you've grown
Out of your white cotton frocks
And into red silk saris
They talk about how you're ripe for marriage
About how quickly boys flock to you--
Your family's rich and you are beautiful.
Like a princess but with none of the excess.
Their perfect Indian girl is rather simple.
But, the real you they can never comprehend.
Those brown khol-rimmed eyes with
That understated nose ring confuses them.
They'd rather ignore your luscious red mouth.
Those soft lips were like velvet as they brushed across my lashes as you pretended to blow sand out of my eyes one drunken night on a Konkan beach.
Both too scared to be the first to say anything
We just sat there drunk and giggling
When the aunties speak of you
I can't help but imagine
Things that leave
Little to the imagination.
I am a woman
And you are a woman
We're on the same page.
The boys will wait.
On a dark Friday night, creature crawling
The darkness silenced, frogs in swamps shuts
Croaking and the hissing create muted at once
To perceive the whistlers whistling in turns
PaMushika-shika, To board home, Combies
After being dropped off by the combi Pahasha
I opted for a quick thriving by the darks, Ana
Sisi Pamumvuri. A quick one to say, quench
My absurd sexual appetites, lips left so dried...
Two steps forth, leaking my white rimmed lips
A bite too, appreciating a sultry maze in front
Never did I thought of my ED condition. Oh
Had long forgotten about understanding my ed
And his symptoms, Ed and my lifestyle as well
His common causes I had drawn a blank eye.
A short skirts fitting her slendern torso, as of
My utterance she became the defined beauties
Of the night, Eh... so eloquent alike Mugabe's
Speech in Native language, mocking the chaps
Whom taught him of vowels a e i o u. A ei ou
Quick to react, she gets to talk business as of
Her routine, A five dollar note for short time
Not a bad fortune for her well decorated torso
In her dark room I found myself in, undressing
And her radio, powered on spelling the melting pot
It spelt of the misfortunes of the domains vividly
How we queue in long impetuous lines to refill
How the price hiking and shelves emptying wry
How the bond note manifest into bondage, more...
And more dilemmas spat by the voice in her radio.
The heraldings left me a quagmire, I was stunned
In a state of confusion and conflicts, I was naked
So rinsed were my thoughts of independence awry
And to her nakedness I found not any pleasure more
An ED to her rescue, Victims of circumstances
Never did I thought of stress to lead me an ED
Depression, anxiety, and alcohol often trigger it.
In this case maybe my physical factor of diabetes,
My kidney disease and blood vessel diseases been the culprit.
An Erectile dysfunction to her rescue. Victims of ED.
She looks so fragile. Her posture, usually so straight and confident, is hunched. Her eyes - those brilliant sapphire-blue eyes that captivated my dad thirty years ago - are a tear-softened turquoise behind black-rimmed glasses. She stares blankly out the window, seeing something I don't. Watching memories, perhaps.
My mum, the strongest woman I know, looks breakable.
the old cherry clock
ticks away broken heartbeats --
splash of crimson wine
I sit beside her and place my hand over her smaller, trembling one. It's the only comfort she will accept. She is my mother. She is supposed to be strong for me, not the other way around. That's what she would say. So I sit beside her helplessly, holding her tiny hand.
She has lost her mother tonight. And I can only hope that, someday, I will have a child to hold my hand when I lose this woman I love so dearly.
Eye Contact
Some said he had those scary eyes,
unnerving, somehow seeming to look
clear through, capable of seeing the
truth – of you. They didn’t stare at
you, just sort of found you and held
you in an eerie embrace. There was
a glint to the eyes, a sharpness to
the edges, a weary, and wary, wiliness.
And yet, they drew you in, these cold
and smoldering, blue-gray questioners
of all they see. Tight lines rimmed the
edges of the pools, white tipped lashes
fanning and refocusing the laser looks.
And then they smiled, as if something
had just reminded them of a pleasing
sight, a soft sunrise rose across his face,
a gentle fox to kit wink, an unguarded
moment on the parapet of life.
John G. Lawless
9/16/2014
For PD"S A poem you have not entered in a contest #12 poetry contest
Plain as she can be
She who sat next to me
Freckled with horn rimmed glasses
And late to all her school classes
An outcast, she thought by her peers
Dwelling on her chronic fears
Not wanting to be noticed
As like the beauty and grace of the lotus
Flying under the radar screen
Hoping she would not be seen
Blending into the background
One day she blossomed and was found
Like Cinderella and her glass slipper
Not even a prince could resist her
Suddenly she became a swan
One that others lavishly fawn
Dark skies fill eyes of despair,
Full of hurt and anger that grows so strong;
A pain-filled child ready to rip out her hair,
All her life never feeling like she belongs.
Dark-bright eyes, rimmed in smeared mayballine,
With moon-colored skin they look haunted.
A tortured wild-girl ready to scream,
Knowing deep inside that she isn't wanted.
Looking out through blood red strands,
At what could be her kill or prey;
Yellow-green cat eyes scan the land,
Ready to take out an enemy and leave it to decay.
So lost inside with not a light;
Showing anger instead of her pain.
Taking out her injuries on the world in spite;
The emotions inside so hard to contain.
One little slice turns to ten,
Before she knows it shes addicted.
She jots down her words in black liquid pen,
Her heart so jumbled, feels constricted.
No one knows the secrets she hides;
She doesn't think anyone would care
She's tossed under the rip-tides,
trapped unable to breath with the tricking suns glare.
On the prey she paces like a cat;
A black panther so smooth, with a wicked saunter.
At any moment ready to strike and go into full combat,
Ready to win front and center.
If you look into her sinful eyes,
Would you see all her lies and truths;
Or get trapped in her promiscuous disguise.
Deep inside shes a sleuth,
Watching how everyone else in the world acts;
Wondering if she can too act like that.
When someone finds out why she' like this, it stops her in her tracks;
She attacks, then hides in the dark like a bat.
She's the Dark Poet; the Little Lost one.
There is no hope for her;
She knows all hope has been lost, the threads come undone;
She's trapped in her own world, with a panthers black purr.
Given up all effort to try and make it better then it is;
She doesn't see the point in trying anymore.
Even her heart screams out "you will never be his",
Left to lay her beautiful corps on the floor.
She's haunted, twisted, evil little one, she's so dark inside,
Finally she'll let it all out, she'll let people see,
There is nothing left to hide,
I promise I've never killed anyone,
But me...
Very Welcome Neighbors II
The Reticulated Woodpecker mates, made it through the winter……
…..offspring, one of each gender arrive with fanfare!
About one quarter the size of each parent, of course the female is the smaller bird…..Ohh, the splendor of the male sibling born with a complete fiery red-
crested head.
A set of a mini-mom and dad complete. Their parents hangout with them for weeks y
l
While they learn to f
And become self- sufficient.
The cozy nest they pecked open wide and filled with natures comforts the parents had prepared in the Winter atop a dying palm.
The lovely carved out safe-haven survived through the Spring…..compelled by instinct, the two Adult love-peckers go their own way…
…leaving their children behind in a familiar Patch of the woods with their home. p
o
t
The siblings have yet to stray too far. Gazing at the female as she searches A
what is left of the dead palm after the nest segment fell to the
Ground
easily snapping
off from all the soaking rains…
....The
palm now three quarters of its original height and rimmed with a rigid new opening.
I have my eyes on you two!
Don't be so tortured, passion.
Don't be so metal rimmed in servitude
to all that's over the top and brimming with enigma's breath
Don't be the pump of blood adrenaline
on all the days one might have called
the moon out on her day of death.
Don't be so riddled, passion.
Don't be so all elusively inclined
to all that want a taste of you with grasping hands
Don't be the hide to seek tonight
in all this dark when even stars
grow quaint in the ignite of their demands.
Don't be so waning, passion.
Don't whisk the room in tenderness
past all the sense of first encounter's countenance
Don't rinse the obligated sigh
in love's delight and broken breath
when all we want is permanence.
Don't be so quiet, passion.
Don't leave us here with metal lips
to kiss desire in last good bye's and marriage vows
Don't rinse your hands of us tonight
as we live on adrenaline
and bated tongues immerse you even now...
Ah, perfection…..
The ever-sweet concoction of confection
Color inside the lines no deviation
No platypus designs in this creation
Be British, never rise above your station
Perfection….
We’re told we’ll never get there - so why try
Achieving naught but failure till we die
Listening to teachers sadly sigh
While wiping way the tears we couldn’t cry
One size would never fit us all
From birth until we slowly learn to crawl
Neither can one bag collect the leaves of fall
Nor mute the changing tone of winter’s pall
Cold harriers will stalk the written word
Slash it with a heartless wooden sword
For using words that they could not afford
To describe a mud rimmed pond as a fjord
So strive to be the best that you can be
Remembering that freedom isn’t free
And as you etch the page with flowing ink
There is much room between red’s edge - and pink
John G. Lawless
©4/4/2022